What He Gets from Me
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: Hamish got everything from Sherlock. Especially his heart. (parentlock)


Hamish got everything from Sherlock.

He was born via In vitro fertilization and a surrogate who looked so much like Sherlock John could have sworn they were twins separated at birth. To prove how preposterous that was, Sherlock performed a simple test that easily pointed out that there was no way in hell he was even remotely related to the surrogate. John criticized him for being so dramatic.

From the moment he was born, it was very clear who Hamish would come to resemble.

"He looks just like you," John smiled, petting his new child's head tenderly.

"Nonsense," Sherlock snapped. "You couldn't possible tell. You've never seen me as an infant."

"Haven't I?" John raised an eyebrow.

Immediately, Sherlock froze on the spot.

John gave a short laugh. "Did you know your brother keeps your baby picture in his wallet at all times? Blackmail purposes, he called it."

Sherlock was clearly not amused. "I thought I burned all of those."

"Perhaps your brother is a bit too clever for you, hmm?"

Sherlock shot him a rather annoyed glance.

* * *

Hamish was a squirmy child. He demanded love and attention at nearly every point in the day-or night for that matter.

Upon hearing their son began to wail, John turned over and groaned. "Your turn," he mumbled, lightly elbowing his partner in the chest.

Sherlock's response was to turn his back to John and slip the covers over his head. "You go," he grumbled back slightly irritated.

John groaned and gave Sherlock a firm punch in the back. "You're insufferable," he hissed into Sherlock's ear before rousing from bed. Sherlock pretended not to hear.

At two am, the cries of an infant only seemed to amplify. John could hear the wailing intensify the closer he got to Hamish's room. There, the baby laid on his back with his head thrashing side to side and his mouth wide open, screaming at the top of his little lungs.

"Oh hush," John murmured, walking up to the rocker and reaching down to scoop the child into his arms. "You'll suffocate if you keep doing that."

Hamish cried and squirmed in John's arms for quite a while. John gently rocked the child back and forth, whispering softly into his tiny ears and planting soft, loving kisses upon his temple.

Eventually, the boy fell silent.

Instantly asleep, John took a good look at his son. Hamish had a pale face, even when reddened by the excessive crying. He was already beginning to grow a head full of dark curls. Oh yes, he began to resemble Sherlock more and more each day.

* * *

"He is a fussy child," John admitted. "He loves attention."

"Ah, yes," Mycroft mused. "You know, Sherlock was quite the attention-seeker as a child as well. Why, I remember once when he was, oh about five years old-,"

"_Mycroft_," Sherlock gave his brother a stern warning.

John had to bite his tongue to keep from breaking out into laughter.

* * *

Hamish grew into a curious little boy. John would often joke about how much he regretted teaching Hamish how to walk, because ever since the boy had been able to stand on his own two feet he had made it a habit to explore everything and everywhere.

"Oh god," John cried out in pure mortification. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was by his side in an instant and they both watched in absolute horror as their son innocently bathed himself in a puddle of spilled pig's blood.

Hamish also, to save his parents' sanity, enjoyed books.

"Daddy, daddy, read me this one!" Hamish demanded, impatiently crawling into John's lap in the middle of his paperwork.

John sighed. "Not right now, Hamish."

"What about papa?"

"Papa's working on an experiment right now. We don't bother papa's experiments, right?"

And yet the devastated look on his son's face was enough for John to roll his eyes and open the book anyways.

* * *

It was very clear once Hamish started school that he was only going to resemble Sherlock more and more.

Hardly a few months into primary school, John and Sherlock were called down to discuss why their son was avoiding the other students.

"Hamish is such a bright student," his instructor had complimented. "But he doesn't get along with the other children. He refuses to share craft materials and he won't participate in any class games."

Sherlock snorted. "Perhaps because games like that are rudimentary and a complete waste of everybody's time."

John harshly elbowed Sherlock in the side and apologized at least ten times.

When Hamish came home one day, he proudly presented yet another perfect score on one of his maths exams.

John, however, looked less than pleased. "Yes that's quite all right Hamish, but you know, your teacher just gave me a call to inform me that you're near failing history."

Hamish frowned deeply. "But history is so boooring!"

John placed his hands sternly on his hips. "Excuse me? You know, you'll never get anywhere in life if you don't at least know when Christopher Columbus began exploring!"

"Who's Christopher Columbus?"

And at that point, John only stared at his son with wide horrified eyes as he realized that he was raising a second Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

At age nine, Hamish came home with his first bruise.

John was mortified.

"How did this happen?"

"I fell," Hamish tried.

Sherlock only snorted. "He was hit. Clearly by someone taller than him based on the angle of the mark. Someone with trust issues and a sick mother. Obviously a recipe for disaster."

"Oh my god," John groaned. "Hamish, are the other kids picking on you?"

"No," Hamish insisted.

"Of course they are," Sherlock once again pointed out.

"Hamish!" John cried out. "You've got to tell an instructor!"

"I can handle it myself," Hamish snapped, walking away from the conversation.

Late at night, John expressed his worries in bed.

"I don't want him being bullied like that," John thought aloud.

Sherlock scooted closer to his partner and nuzzled gently against John's temple. "He's a strong boy."

"I know," John sighed. "I just don't want him ending up like-," he instantly caught his breath.

Sherlock stiffened his back and sat straight up. "Like who, John?"

"Nothing," John tried to save himself, crawling under the covers. "Just go to sleep."

Sherlock grabbed John's upper arm rather firmly. "Like me?"

"I never said that."

"You thought it, though," Sherlock said. "You're afraid he'll end up cold and heartless like me. That he'll spiral downwards and hit rock bottom before he turns eighteen."

"I'm not saying anything," John insisted. "And don't talk about yourself like that."

Sherlock, his fingers still wrapped around John's arm, softened his grip. "John, I made some bad choices as a child. I was teased all throughout school and there was no one there for me. My parents were home perhaps one day a week and no child wants to be raised by his older brother. This child…our child, I will give you my word, will not end up the same way. And do you know why?" He didn't wait for John to answer before continuing. "Because he has two very protective parents who will not let that happen. Do you understand me?"

John couldn't do anything but nod silently.

Sherlock finally let go of John's arm and slid down under the covers, his back facing John.

When he thought his partner was fast asleep, John turned around to plant a kiss on the side of Sherlock's exposed neck.

"I love you," he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

And just when he began to slink back into sleep, he was startled by Sherlock's sudden "And I, you."

John couldn't help but smile.

* * *

"Daddy, papa, I won!" Hamish grinned, throwing himself into Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock obliged his son, picking the boy up and swinging him around in a circle. Still keeping the boy in his arms, he pried the trophy from Hamish's hands and handed the precious award to John for safekeeping.

_Science festival first place winner_

_Hamish Watson Holmes_

"That's my boy!" John grinned and ruffled up his son's hair.

* * *

By age twelve, Hamish stopped talking to his parents.

"Hamish what do you want for supper?"

Hamish didn't even lift his eyes from his schoolwork.

John frowned. "Come on. Are you ever going to tell us what we've done to deserve this whole silent charade you're playing?"

Still no reaction.

When John felt a slender hand slide up his shoulder, he covered the hand with his own and gazed up at Sherlock. "I want to take him to a doctor."

"You are a doctor," Sherlock reminded him, pressing his lips against the top of John's head.

"No," John said. "A professional. Someone who deals with this…behavior."

"And you're sure it won't make things worse?"

John furrowed his eyebrows. "How could things get any worse?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. "When I was about his age, my parents took me to a doctor. To this day I've never completely forgiven them for thinking I was ill."

John heaved a loud sigh.

* * *

"Hamish, if you don't talk to an instructor about that scratch on your face I'm going to have to call the police."

"Hamish, are you listening to me?"

"I am not above grounding you, young man!"

"Hamish!"

* * *

Hamish was fifteen the first time he got arrested.

He adverted his eyes away from the disappointed look on his parents' faces and bowed his head as if ashamed.

Drugs.

"I can't believe it!" John all but screamed, clutching at the hair on his head in frustration. "I can't fucking believe it!"

Sherlock tried to place a reassuring hand on John's shoulder, only to be shrugged off. "John, calm down."

"Calm down," John repeated. "Our kid is a drug addict and you want me to calm down?"

"Yes."

"Well, I won't." And John kicked over a kitchen chair and tossed a newspaper at the wall as violently as possible to prove it.

He then fell to his knees with his head in his hands and began to sob.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and crouched down in front of his lover.

"What are we doing wrong?" John groaned, his voice muffled by his own hands.

In response, Sherlock tenderly placed his hands on either side of John's face and lifted the soldier's head so that their eyes could meet. "Nothing," Sherlock answered firmly. "We're trying the best we can."

"Yeah," John nodded. "We're just god-awful parents."

Sherlock could feel his heart sink deep within his chest as he gently wiped away John's tears with his thumbs. "Of course we aren't. We're better parents than our own."

"Then why?" John asked, his voice shaking.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, and closed it. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and bowed his head to touch his forehead against John's. His grip on the sides of John's face tightened as he spoke. "I'm sorry, John. I suppose he does take after me after all."

* * *

Hamish spent five weeks in an inpatient rehabilitation center.

He came back speaking less than ever before.

John could see it. He could watch Hamish's transition right before his eyes, from curious young child to the spitting image of Sherlock Holmes. They had the same cold, stiff eyes. The same dark brown curls. Pale skin. Thin body. All joints. Neither of them could pay attention for very long. Both of them would stay up late into the night and fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon. It was a struggle for John to get either to eat.

John had a hard enough time keeping one Sherlock in check. He didn't need to deal with two.

And he was tired.

* * *

"Hamish, we're going out to eat."

Immediately, the boy bounded up the stairs and into his room, locking the door behind him.

Sherlock was up in an instance, banging his fist against Hamish's door. "Hamish, open up! Do you really think a rudimentary lock like this can hold me out? Who do you think I am? I _will_ get this door open and you _will_ be sorry!"

This time it was John to put a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just let him be," he whispered.

And Sherlock obeyed reluctantly.

* * *

At that point it was very clear. John had given up.

"Sherlock, look at yourself. You're worn out, more than usual. Do you want me to take him in for a while? Just for a few weeks or so until you and John have got some proper rest."

"I didn't ask for your help, _Mycroft_."

"So be it."

They sat in silence for a while.

Mycroft nodded slowly. "You're a good father, Sherlock. Mummy would have been proud."

Sherlock shook his head in opposition. "He's turning into me and I can't stop it."

"And what are you?"

"A freak."

* * *

The night before Hamish's seventeenth birthday, he ran away from home.

If it had been any other boy, Sherlock would have found him in less than two hours flat. Teenage boys are often stupid and messy and would leave obvious traces. However, this was Hamish, and Hamish was not a normal teenage boy. Sherlock found that, after wandering through several London alleyways, the trail grew thin and cold until his son was completely undetectable.

Standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, panicking for the first time in many, many years, Sherlock darted his eyes around his surroundings, hoping for something. Anything. Any little clue that might lead him to his son's whereabouts. A scent. A strand of hair. He was desperate. He was afraid. Afraid that soon, his son's cleverness would reach a whole new level, more so than Sherlock himself. It wasn't that Sherlock feared intelligence, of course. It was more that Sherlock feared the lack of control he could have against someone like Hamish. The boy was on a dangerous path, a path that grew more and more dangerous with each passing day. And if Hamish could outwit his own father, there would be no way for Sherlock to stop him.

Sherlock's fingers trembled as he sent a reluctant text.

_I can't find him. Help me.-SH_

He got a text back almost immediately.

_You're asking me for help?-MH_

_Yes. And you can humiliate me after you find me my son.-SH_

With a little help from technology and two genius minds at work, Sherlock and Mycroft were able to secure enough street footage to logically pinpoint an exact location.

Hamish had, in fact, found refuge behind a rather shady coffee shop hidden in the backstreets.

Sherlock was relieved.

Sherlock was furious.

When their identical eyes met, Hamish immediately turned and sprinted away.

Sherlock tackled him.

"I'm going to report you for abuse!" Hamish screamed.

"Thank god!" Sherlock hissed back as he twisted his son's wrists behind his back as if he was being arrested. "Then perhaps they can find you a nice, quiet home with a family who can actually control you, because it's quite clear we can't!"

Hamish stopped struggling after that.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Sherlock snapped, practically throwing Hamish through the door of 221B. The boy stumbled a bit, but held his tongue.

With one hand wrapped painfully tight around Hamish's upper arm, Sherlock pointed into the room where John sat on the couch, startled by the sound of his family bursting through the door. "Look at him. Look at your father," Sherlock snarled, shaking his son a few times for good measure. "You did this to him."

Hamish tried to advert his eyes, but Sherlock's strong hands were on his face, forcing him to stare at John curled up on the couch, eyes bloodshot and baggy, salty tears still falling down his cheeks. He looked pathetic. Broken. Tired. Just tired.

"Are you happy?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. "Is this your goal? To make your father cry? Because if so, you are a cruel, cruel boy." Sherlock rarely raised his voice. His attitude was always stoic and calm. Hamish was frightened.

"Sherlock," John called out. "Don't…"

"Do you have any idea what we've done for you?" Sherlock hissed, completely ignoring John's warning. "All the sleepless nights we've spent constantly worrying about you? How many times we thought you'd be better off in an institution? We tried, Hamish. We tried to give you a good home. We never hit you. We never ignored you. And this is how you repay us?"

Hamish kept silent.

Sherlock could feel the heat rising up from his toes to his face until he finally exploded, kneeling down to the ground, gritting his teeth, and gripping his son's shoulders as tightly as possible, shaking the boy almost violently. "I'm going to send you away!" he screamed. "I'm going to send you as far away as possible so I won't have to deal with you insolent bastard son any longer!"

Hamish let out a little cry of shock, and suddenly John was standing to rush over in defense. "Sherlock, stop it!"

"You're sick!" Sherlock screamed. "You're sicker than I am!"

"Stop!" John called out, grabbing onto Sherlock's shoulders.

And suddenly all went still.

Sherlock stopped shaking the boy. His grip was still firm on Hamish's shoulders, but it was somehow gentler. He dropped his head to his son's chest and exhaled a shaky breath.

Hamish could feel tears soak through his shirt.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered, his hands trembling around Hamish's shoulders. "I'm sorry."

The hand John had placed on Sherlock's shoulder now rubbed his upper back in slow, reassuring circles as an attempt to comfort the detective.

"I never cared about anything," Sherlock confessed. "My parents were never there. My brother was too young to be a father to me. I turned into a freak. I was beaten by those who claimed to be my friend so I froze my heart. I turned away from emotions and loved nothing. And then…" Sherlock choked on his own sob. "I had a family. And I found out how important it was to love. How important it was to _feel_." Sherlock gave out a short laugh. "All your life I lived in fear that you would turn into me. I tried so hard to be there for you the way my parents never were. All I ever wanted for you was the best. If you had asked me for a castle and a thousand servants, I would have gotten it for you, even if it meant the death of me. Because there is nothing more precious to me in this world than you and your father, and without you, I have nothing to live for. I love you, Hamish. I love you so much, can't you see that?"

And when Sherlock finally raised his head to directly look his son in the eyes, he found Hamish to be silently crying too.

Hamish's lip quivered slightly.

Sherlock mimicked the movement.

And suddenly, Hamish's arms were around Sherlock's neck, pulling his father closer into his chest and practically cradling Sherlock's head in his arms. His sobs became significantly more vocal as he wailed aloud.

Both John and Sherlock were absolutely astonished, as this was the first time Hamish had willingly touched either parent since he was a young boy.

In reaction, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his son's waist, holding him tight as if Hamish would leave if he ever let go. Hamish was warm. Sherlock could practically feel his heart slowly melt.

Of course, John didn't want to be left out, so he joined in to shield both his boys, one hand on either of their backs so that the three of them were locked in a tangled embrace.

"I'm sorry," Hamish cried out to both his parents. "I'm sorry I'm such a horrible child."

"No," John said. "I'm sorry for giving up."

And all three of them cried for so long they ended up asleep right there on the floor, arms still tangled around each other.

* * *

"Hamish, come here."

Hamish didn't budge.

"Hamish, don't you dare think you can hide from me. Come here, _now_."

And when Hamish turned to face his father, his bruised face came into view.

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. "Come here," he repeated his instruction, beckoning his child over to his side.

Hamish was reluctant, but obeyed his father nonetheless.

Sherlock put a hand up to his son's face, turning Hamish's head and gently rubbing the bruise vibrant on his right cheekbone. "Who was it this time?"

"Alex," Hamish hissed, the spite evident in the way he pronounced the name.

"Again?"

"He won't leave me alone!"

"Do you want me to intervene?"

"No, I-," Hamish cut himself off as he felt a bandage being smoothed over his face. "I…" he repeated, as if unsure of how to finish his sentence. "Yes. Yes, I think I'd like that."

"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Because I was going to intervene regardless of whether you wanted me to or not."

Hamish fumed, balling his hand into a fist and punching his father square in the shoulder. "You're insufferable!"

Sherlock let out a huge grin. "I see you get your colorful vocabulary from John."


End file.
